You make it look easy. The pain is by glory. Hard won. Hard earned. It sounds so general; thus, unreachable. So tragic in arts—so allergic to flattery. It couldn’t be truism; it couldn’t be life. I was with awe. I was amazed by passions, frequency, deliverance. It seems like science, it carries magic, oh soul of antiquity. I’ve texture with skies—focused, pivotal, driven. If by agony, to stick like nails, thrust through palms, delving into soil. You make it look easy—in knowing to carry life is aching. Just speaking to universality. Most grow accustomed to being used. It makes genuineness a difficult appetizer. And longing hurts, some indecent art, to imagine so much of what is perceived. If that one moment, to feel perfect, making tragedy seem eloquent. So celebrated, so uncelebrated, so much intensity. You make it look easy. No one searches through caves—to see pained petroglyphs. I walk into horizons, measured upon a dial, in some gesture; a man of minimalism—days are monitored by an inner compass, feuding with invisibility, aching in presence, leaving life to itself, an error. Most try to say what enchants—to have forever in a moment, so difficult to reignite. (Passion would be frustrated. Angelizing a potential imp. So, moving every encounter: Why wouldn’t one inflict hardship? To become what one detests, out of a drive to reap terrors; to ask for what another was granted; sheer interior negotiation, for a lifespan.) To make it look like Italy; to become holy as Israel; to look as human a Californians. (I was into a zone, rethinking reality, seeming delicate, realizing roots, sensing abruptness.)
